


Needed a break, gone to France x

by sleepymccoy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Pining, all that good stuff, light fluffy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-05-28 10:06:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19391884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepymccoy/pseuds/sleepymccoy
Summary: A week or so after the nopocalypse Aziraphale takes a holiday that, unfortunately, sends Crowley into a bit of a tailspin about where they're at





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Crowley stood outside his apartment, deciding if he wanted to go inside or not. There was holy water on the ground, bad memories, and resentful plants in there. He could just take his name off the lease and pick up a new place. Start again. 

He spun on his heel and walked to the nearest real estate business. Two hours and a hastily miracled £3,000,000 and he owned a disgustingly modern studio apartment in Soho. It was all metal walls and neon lights you could change the colour of and too many mirrors and heated floors. He was pretty pleased about the heated floor, if he was honest. It did have a nice balcony, which Crowley had missed in the last few decades, as well as two smallish rooms off to the side that made the studio aspect of it more liveable. It was also walking distance to Aziraphale's bookshop, but that was a coincidence of course. 

Crowley walked around his empty studio space. He needed to go back to his old apartment and pick up his statues, he hadn't considered them sufficiently when he'd discorporated Ligur. He miracled himself some gumboots in case the water had remained.

It had and Crowley was relieved no one could see him taking large, ridiculously posed and stressful steps over his doorway.

Collecting his things had gone without any major incidents and by dinner time Crowley had set up his new flat. The plants were in one room, a bed in another. There was a large bath overlooked by the statue of a bird he'd picked up during the blitz sitting in the corner of the studio. The wrestling angel and demon had a focal stage in one corner surrounded by a few too low to be comfortable couches that Crowley had backdated the order of and so had arrived three hours after his irate complaint to the furniture company. He had a shelf with wines and whiskeys all along it and two glasses of each useful kind. 

Crowley threw himself into a couch with a glass of wine and looked out at his balcony warmly. It was empty, he'd have to do something good with it before summer. He’d love a chance to bask in the sun again. As the sun went down the reflection of the angel and demon sharpened, forcing him to think about Aziraphale. It had been a week since they'd ended the end of the world. Crowley had crashed at the bookshop a few times, and spent a few nights just driving around England, making sure his Bentley felt right. It had been about 40 hours since he'd last slept, but he wasn't tired yet. He had a month or so before he’d get properly tired, but he’d likely sleep tomorrow regardless.

He'd had to buy a new phone and had decided to get a new number too, might as well make it a smidge more inconvenient for Hell to find him. He grabbed the receiver (he'd bought a stylish modern phone that formed a free standing circle, the receiver was part of the circle. He hated it, but it suited the flat. And it claimed a good capacity to block unwelcome calls.) and dialled.

He called the bookshop and waited for Aziraphale to answer. Aziraphale had set his phone to ring ten times before going to voicemail because he so often was quite a distance from it. Crowley had not yet left a message on Aziraphale's answering machine, but as ring eight passed he wondered if tonight he might have to. What was he calling to say?

"Welcome to Fell bookshop, I mean, welcome to my answering phone. Um, if you have a question I hope you find the answer to it. Open hours are as on my door. Leave a message if you must. Have a splendid day!"

The tone sounded.

"Aziraphale, what're you doing? I got a new phone number, I'll come by and give it to y- oh, never mind, you won't listen to this. I'll come by." Crowley hung up quickly.

He considered finishing his wine, then considered leaving it behind to return to. Then remembered that he'd moved in three blocks from Aziraphale's and could simply walk with his glass, so he did so. 

Shortly later he arrived at the bookshop, his saunter mildly more pronounced than usual because of his drink. The lights were off, oddly.

Crowley banged on the door, flipping off a curious and concerned pedestrian as he did. "It's me!" He shouted even though he thought it was rather obvious.

There was no reaction. He hit the door again. And old lady walking her cat on a leash glared at him so he smiled back warmly and miracled the leash to break. He chuckled into his glass as she spent two minutes trying to coax the cat down from a high wall.

"Aziraphale!" He called out after a kind citizen had climbed the wall and passed the cat back to the woman. "Azi- oh." He noticed a letter taped to the glass of the door, exactly at his eye level. It said  _ Crowley _ in pleasant script. 

He put his glass down on the step and tore the envelope open. It was short. He sank to the step, sitting next to his glass.

_ Needed a break, gone to France x _

Crowley read it a few times. 

Crowley finished his glass of wine.

Crowley read the letter again.

Crowley threw his glass of wine into a nearby bin and walked home, the letter in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I spend less time talking about interior decorating in the following chapters. I do devolve into detailing minestrone at some point tho.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The letter sat on the shelf where the glass Crowley had mindlessly thrown out had been. For something that Crowley read a few times a day it was very ignored. It didn't gather dust, but Crowley made a point of not glancing at it, except when he picked it up and read it again. What did it mean?

At face value it meant Aziraphale needed a break and was in Paris for that break. But what was he on a break from? And why did he tell Crowley where he was? Was Crowley meant to follow? Aziraphale didn't do things on face value with any reliability, maybe Crowley was meant to find him and prove himself. Or maybe it was a test to see if Crowley could respect a requested distance. Or maybe it was just a polite note for an acquaintance to stop them worrying. Maybe Crowley should be checking on the shop? 

And why did it end with an x?

Three days passed. Crowley called the book shop every day, let it ring until nine rings, then hanging up before the machine could record the call. 

Did Aziraphale know what an x meant in modern times? It used to refer to Christ, maybe it was a reminder that he was an angel to Crowley’s demon. 

That would mean definitely don’t contact him, then.

He found a night market a suburb over that he could pretend he needed to visit and drove passed the shop after dark every night along the way to see if the lights were on yet. He also bought a lot of vegetables and didn't know what to do with them. He bought a fridge to keep them in. Days passed.

If he went to France and Aziraphale didn't want to see him, he would be a fool. An invasive fool who couldn't understand the one tone message in a short note. Needed a break.

Needed a break. Crowley needed a break too, but he'd been taking his with Aziraphale, not without. He wasn't on a break now, he was fixating.

If he didn't go to France and Aziraphale had wanted that, well, Crowley could claim to be respectful. Or unengaged. He would probably claim to be unengaged. 

Maybe he should return the note, pretend he never went by the shop and found it.  _ Didn't even realise you'd gone, angel, how long was the trip? _ He could play it off.

He put the note back where he’d found it.

He drove past every night, buying more vegetables than a family of seven would need, let alone a demon who never ate. The note remained taped to the door like it had never been touched, and the lights were always off. 

He got very drunk one night. He didn’t remember what he’d done, but he came to in the telephone box outside Aziraphale’s place. 

Crowley got angry. He stormed around his new apartment, yelling at his plants, glaring daggers at the bird statue, throwing his other wine glass at the wall. 

He'd need to buy another pair of wine glasses. Maybe he should just get one?

Three weeks after Aziraphale had left he ended up storming off to Aziraphale's shop.

He muttered his whole way there, his words a mix of angelic aligned insults and pleas for answers. As well as a few  _ what the fucks _ .

When he got there, though, he didn't scream and rail at the shop. There was a box on the doorstep addressed to A. Fell. Crowley went through it, it was full of old, leather bound books. Mostly plant encyclopaedias, someone who was very into detailing orchids. 

Crowley left the box and climbed the wall where he'd trapped that cat. Up there he took a snake form and stayed, watching the door like a hawk. Well, more like a snake.

Night turned to day. The heat of the sun calmed Crowley down, his fury having not abated all night. As he warmed he settled into his spot, turning his belly occasionally to warm up. No one approached the shop.

Aziraphale needed a break from him. That was different. Crowley had said a lot, a lot more than he usually said to Aziraphale. He’d tried to run away with him. He’d been found lamenting his death. Of course Aziraphale was freaked out. 

Well, if Aziraphale needed some distance, he’d get it. Then when they caught up again Crowley could play like he didn’t give a shit. Let it fall back into place like it had been twelve years ago. Before they’d spent every day together influencing the wrong kid. Before they’d broken up and gotten back together a few times. Before they’d risked the other’s life for theirs. Crowley could follow Aziraphale’s lead, play it cool.

The sun went down. Crowley waited out the night. The sun came up. A young lady paused by the shop and read the lengthy open hours. She left. Crowley sighed, enjoying the warmth. He should set up his balcony.

The sun began to set again. Crowley felt his irritation grow. No Aziraphale. Nothing. Message received.

He took his usual body and leapt down from the wall and grabbed the box of orchid books, taking it with him back to his apartment. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Crowley was making minestrone. His fridge had been joined by a stove and a bench. On the bench were seven books on orchids, a book from the 700s on Sussex’s grain yields, a nice antique lamp, and Delia Smith's winter foods magazine. The last was open on a page detailing minestrone. 

He was busily identifying vegetables, keeping himself distracted as he practiced a voicemail he was planning to leave.

"Hi angel, been a little, just wanted to check in and see how- no, I can't call him that now," he interrupted himself. Long and kinda tubey, it was white and one end and green at another. There was nothing like this on the open magazine page so he threw it out.

"Aziraphale, where have you- hmm. Maybe best to not address him at all." He threw some carrots in the pot, he couldn't be bothered cutting them up. 

"I have some of your books, dick head. I'm keeping them hostage until you fucking talk to me again."

Crowley sighed and leaned against the counter sluttily, rereading the recipe. "Oh, I need tomatoes," he muttered to himself. He stood up and tried again. "It's been a hot minute since I saw ya, I hope Paris is good. I can cook now. I swing by every night so just leave a light on for me and I'll see you then, angel,” his voice trailed off sadly and he shook his head. He turned and began rummaging through the fridge for something red.

Luckily he had tomatoes, so he threw a load of them in whole. He squelched the soup around with a wooden spoon, following the instructions to mix it. Some of the tomatoes fell apart under the pressure. He hummed a few bars of Killer Queen under his breath.

"Hi. Sorry if I was meant to chase you. Did you need a break from me or from everything else? I want to see you." He stirred the soup. It was very chunky. He wondered if the part where they said cut the vegetables up was more instruction than the option he’d taken it for. "I want to see you," he mimicked in a high pitch voice, mocking himself for the moment of sincerity.

Stock. What was stock? Liquid stock, it said. Well, wine was a liquid he thought happily as he poured a bottle in. "Don't bother trying to contact me, I've moved house and changed my number. I'll run into you again some time, I'm sure. Back to normal, eh?" He drank the last half a cups worth from the bottle.

That would do. It was pithy, it was emotionally unaffected, it was cool. Didn’t matter that it made him feel sick, Aziraphale had fucked off for four weeks now with no contact, Crowley could manage the same.

He lazily threw a whole broccoli into the pot.

~~~~~

Crowley hadn’t enjoyed his minestrone. He didn’t get what the fuss was about, restaurant food was always better than home cooked. He glared at his strange, new age home phone like if it went unwatched it would attack. The plants began to shiver slightly as the tension in the flat steadily rose. 

Crowley had set his phone up so that his number was always blocked. No one he called could call him back unless he gave them his number personally. Crowley wasn’t planning on disabling that feature for Aziraphale, he was leaning so hard into playing hard to get he was treading into actual hard to get territory.

Minutes passed in still silence. Then suddenly Crowley snatched out and grabbed the receiver, relaxing back into the couch as he listened to the now very familiar repeating ringtone. 

"Welcome to Fell bookshop, I mean, welcome to my answering phone. Um, if you have a question I hope you find the answer to it. Open hours are as on my door. Leave a message if you must. Have a splendid day!"

“Aziraphale,” he drawled, trying to recreate the attitude he’d had just over a decade ago when he’d gotten in touch about the antichrist. “I’ve moved, trying to keep Hell off my back and all. I’m sure you understand.” He sighed. “Changed my number, too. I don’t know when you’re due back from your trip but I’m sure we’ll run into each other some time. We seem to keep doing that, don’t we, angel?” Time to wrap up before he said anything more stupid. “Anyway. Catch ya on the flip side.” He hung up and cringed five times in quick succession. He could miracle the voicemail away and do it again, but he wasn’t sure he had the balls to go through leaving another message, and he didn’t want to just bounce without a word. Unlike Aziraphale, apparently. 

Three weeks later he changed his mind about the note and tore it off Aziraphale’s door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Aziraphale sat at his desk, relieved to be home again. Paris was lovely this time of year, and he’d surprisingly enjoyed his foray into Belgium. Flemish art had never been much to his taste, but the region seemed to have moved forward in a comfortably quaint way. 

He was busily ignoring his disappointment that Crowley hadn’t met him at the station as he’d asked. He wondered what he’d done to warrant this silent treatment, he’d thought their last meeting had ended on good terms. More than good, even. 

He’d had a bit of a difficult time with it in France, and especially right after Belgium. He had gotten rather too drunk in a winery there and poor Charles had had to handle quite a lot of upset blather. He eyed his wine cabinet warily. Best not repeat that mistake. Crowley did do this sort of thing occasionally, recently he’d disappeared for an entire century without a word. 

Aziraphale hoped it wouldn’t be another century. He’d rather thought they’d been moving towards something more entwined.

It would all become clear in time, patience is a virtue after all.

He opened his small suitcase which held his new clothes and began pulling out an impossible bulk of stock from such a small container. 

A few short hours later he had finished unpacking and sat happily in his old favourite jacket but new vest and pants. He eyed the jeans hanging in his open closet warily, unconvinced that the pale denim would suit his as well as his new acquaintance had insisted. He would try it, he wasn’t on the clock anymore and could experiment with a touch more freedom. But not today.

He opened the shop’s records book. Although it would have been impossible to make a sale during his two month absence the lack of one still made him smile. He absentmindedly picked up his phone and pressed play on the answering machine, sure he would have a few irate messages from prospect customers. 

He got a start when the first voice was Crowley’s.

"Aziraphale, what're you doing? I got a new phone number, I'll come by and give it to y- oh, never mind, you won't listen to this. I'll come by."

Aziraphale scrambled to check the machine. He’d never bothered to learn what the display meant and so couldn’t tell when Crowley had left that message.

“Mr. Fell, ah, it’s Clive here? You encouraged me to drop my mother’s orchid books off on Thursday. I came by but you didn’t seem to be in so I just left them on your step. You have my number if there are any issues with them. Thanks for taking them off my hands!”

Logically, Crowley must’ve left his message before Clive had dropped his books off - which Aziraphale did vaguely remember agreeing to - which meant he’d done so within a few days of Aziraphale leaving. There were a lot of feelings running through Aziraphale from that, but oddly most of them were dread.

A static sounded through the answering machine, alongside breathing. Then a hiccup. “Zira, what d’I do? I thought we wer’ good. ‘M’sorry.” Crowley’s drunken, slow speaking slur sounded through the shop. Aziraphale sighed, listening sadly. “Jus- I don’t wan’ you t’ go away again. Y’always go away.” There was a clatter and the background sound of the public call box’s female voice asking for more coins. “Fuck you, robot lady,” Crowley said more clearly. There was another clatter, then just sounds of rain and cars for a few long seconds. Then Crowley’s whisper came through Aziraphale’s low quality speakers. “I’ll be here when you get back, angel. Always be ‘ere.” A few seconds later and the call went dead.

A cheerful lady’s voice rang through the store, scaring the living daylights out of Aziraphale. “Hi, I’m looking for a copy of, like, an old bible for my grandfather. He’s catholic and I want to get him something pretty, you know? Call me back if you think you can help. Thanks!”

Aziraphale quickly studied the machine readout. It displayed a clear time, date, and return number to call her back. After a few seconds it beeped and the next message played.

Crowley sounded far less drunk in this one, far more proud and unemotional. Almost harsh. “Aziraphale. I’ve moved, trying to keep Hell off my back and all. I’m sure you understand.” A sad sigh crackled through the speaker, hitting Aziraphale in the chest. “Changed my number, too. I don’t know when you’re due back from your trip but I’m sure we’ll run into each other some time. We seem to keep doing that, don’t we, angel?” Crowley’s voice wavered when he said angel, but he breathed out sharply and continued. “Anyway. Catch ya on the flip side.”

The display said nothing. No, it flashed something. BLOCKED. Well, that was bloody useless. 

“Bad,” Aziraphale muttered, “bad, bad, bad.” He looked around for help, but his books didn’t offer any. What kind of man changed all his contact information in one go? It’s impossible to keep in touch with someone like that. Ridiculous.

Aziraphale suddenly felt quite guilty for his two month absence. Then a rush of exasperation filled him. It wasn’t his fault if Crowley hadn’t gotten his letters! Perhaps he ought to have tried harder to get in touch. He felt guilty again. 

Well, bugger it, he was going to call him back, blocked number and all.

Aziraphale had never learnt to use his answering machine. If he needed to get something out of it, he simply performed a quick miracle. No one in Heaven knew how to work an answering machine either, so he had never gotten in trouble for it. So that’s what he did now, he miracled his phone to call the blocked number that Crowley had called from. To the disappointment to a firewall software engineer somewhere, miracles beat code, and it worked. 

The phone rang five times, then went to voicemail.

“Leave a message,” Crowley’s frustrated voice said briefly before the tone. 

“Oh, ah, hello,” Aziraphale stammered. “I’ve just gotten in and got your messages.” He paused, what was he trying to say? He was trying not to grin, he knew Crowley was upset with him but he was really all too consumed by relief that he hadn’t left. Laughing down the line would almost certainly be unhelpful right now. “How are you?” He asked hesitantly. He rolled his eyes at himself, while he did want to know the answer to that, it was rather pointless to ask an answering machine. “I mean, I’d rather like to talk to you. Please call me back or- or come by, if you prefer,” he finished quietly. He was holding the phone very close to his face. “Soon,” he said softly. He quickly put the receiver down, stopping before he said any more. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Aziraphale sat in his chair, facing his door. It wasn’t impossible that Crowley would walk through the doors, but given that he’d just spent two months thinking Aziraphale had abandoned him without a word or thought it seemed unlikely.

Aziraphale had a plan. It was simple, it could fall apart in a few ways, especially because Crowley was dedicated. It basically involved getting Crowley to read the letters he’d miracled into his flat. Seeing as Aziraphale had miracled them right onto his desk, he had thought it was a foolproof way of delivering them, but apparently Crowley hadn’t checked his own house for signs of contact from Aziraphale. 

There was little point in dwelling on that stroke of idiocy.

Aziraphale spent a minute pulling his shoes on then left. He waved down a cab and spent the ride to Crowley’s old flat humming the few bars of the French anthem he could remember. 

He pulled up to the intimidating concrete façade before long. Aziraphale had only been here once before, right after the apocalypse didn’t happen. He hadn’t slept, but he and Crowley had spent a long time sitting together, just talking to pass the time. They’d started trading stories, good memories of their long lives. As the night had worn on they’d realised that all their stories had something in common - they were together for them. 

Around then Crowley had started on his age old teasing, asking if Aziraphale was really sure he’d done the right thing in the Garden of Eden, and that Crowley had done the wrong. What if it had been the other way. What if they’d swapped.

Some quick brainstorming later and they had swapped. The morning hours were spent teaching Aziraphale how to walk with a wobbly strut, and Crowley that his eyes were visible now and he had to remember not to glare at everyone.

Aziraphale had enjoyed how much Crowley looked at him that night.

Aziraphale miracled the door open and walked upstairs. He walked through a puddle in the doorway and found the small pile of letters he’d sent to Crowley falling where his ethereal powers had left them. 

A thought struck him and he knelt down, touching the water beneath him. Holy water. 

Aziraphale grabbed the five letters he’d sent and put them in his lapel pocket, then went downstairs to try the door of a neighbouring apartment. He knocked.

The door creaked open after a beat to… no one. Aziraphale looked down. A young girl with an afro bigger than her head looked up at him. 

“Hello dear, do you have a mop and bucket I could borrow?” He asked with a smile.

“Ma!” She yelled, still staring at him. 

Aziraphale stood up straight, waiting for the parent. The sound of distant music turned off and a young woman sidled into view. “Who are you?” She said warily.

“I apologise,” Aziraphale said kindly. “My friend has moved out from upstairs and I was just picking up some mail,” he said without a lie. “I spilled something,” he continued, still technically not lying, but it was a stretch. “And I was wondering if I could borrow a mob and bucket to clean it up.”

The woman nodded slowly. She tapped her daughter on the shoulder, pulling her back from the door slightly. “Honey,” she requested, her instruction clear.

“I wanna watch him,” the girl refused.

The woman looked at her kid in exasperation, then looked at Aziraphale for his lead. He shrugged and smiled at the kid. “Ok, hun. Stay inside though,” she said. She hurried off, presumably to loan him some cleaning equipment.

Aziraphale maintained eye contact with the girl, who disconcertingly did not blink first. After a few seconds he began to grow uncomfortable. “Would you like to see a magic trick?” He asked.

She nodded seriously.

Aziraphale crouched down to get to her level, using the full bodied movement to distract her as he fished a coin out of his pocket and slipped it up his sleeve. 

“Do you have any coins on you, miss?” He asked joyfully.

She shook her head. 

“Hmm.” He looked at her with exaggerated doubt. Then he wiggled his hands in front of her face before dashing each hand out by each of her ears, one coming back empty but the other now held a coin.

Her serious expression melted as she gazed at the coin in open amazement. 

“I believe this is yours,” Aziraphale said, holding it up. She tried to grab it, but as her hand passed in front of her eyes he dropped the coin into his sleeve, disappearing it. “Oh no, where did it go?” He asked, his eyes wide.

She frowned at him. “Where did it go?” She demanded.

Aziraphale smiled. “Maybe it went back to your ear. Now which ear was it in?” He made a bit of a show of trying to remember.

She finally got fed up with his unconvincing performance and pointed at her left ear. “It was here!”

Aziraphale reached out to pick up the coin, but he moved with too much confidence and it flew out of his sleeve. He saw it flying across the room behind her head and quickly miracled it back into his hand. He pulled his hand back and triumphantly held it up for her. “Caught it!” He claimed. “Now quickly, go put it somewhere safe that's not your ear, silly!”

She grabbed the coin and ran off into her apartment. She passed her mother as she returned, manhandling a mop and bucket with difficulty. 

“Oh, may I help you with that,” Aziraphale offered, not wanting to step through her doorway without permission. 

She shook her head but handed it off to his outstretched arms grateful when she reached him. 

“Thank you so much,” Aziraphale said.

“Magic tricks, huh?” She asked, nodding towards her kid.

Aziraphale smiled. “It’s nice to have an appreciative audience for once.” “Who’s your usual audience?”

“My friend who’s just moved out.”

She considered that. “He looked a bit like a magician, I suppose.”

Aziraphale grinned. “I will let him know!” He said joyfully, positively beaming. “Thank you for the mop and bucket, I will return them shortly.” She nodded and smiled tightly at him before closing the door.

Aziraphale frowned as soon as the door shut. He didn’t like cheating at magic tricks, and miracles felt an awful lot like cheating.

He hurried upstairs and quickly cleaned away the holy water. It wouldn’t do to lose Crowley now, not at all. 

\-----

Aziraphale hadn’t reopened the store. It had been three days since he’d gotten back and there was simply no sign of Crowley. He’d called a few times more but hadn’t bothered to leave a message. He was beginning to grasp at straws. 

He wandered the streets near his shop, asking strangers if they’d seen a thin man in black walking with confidence, wearing sunglasses despite the clouds. No luck yet.

He could sense the demonic traces in the streets, they were simply full of it. They were recent, he seemed to be only just missing Crowley sometimes they were so strong. He was clearly around, he just hadn’t caught him yet.

He would keep strolling, going by their common meeting places, asking people if they’d seen him. He carried the letters with him, ready for a run in. 

If it hit five days he was going to start using his miracles to trace him, but he wanted to think that Crowley wanted to be found. He should be able to do it without assistance. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

  
  


Four days after Aziraphale had finally called him back Crowley was walking down the street in search of a stereo system for his car. He had a theory that if he used computer files instead of CDs the Bentley might not turn everything into Queen. At least he may stall the process. Just occasionally he’d really like to listen to a Gregorian chant, or at least a David Bowie song that wasn’t Under Pressure.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice called out to him from behind. Crowley froze and thought furiously hard for a second, reminding himself that he’d decided to play this cool and distant. To own it. He turned and readied himself to smile blandly at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was half walking, half jogging towards him, an open, hopeful smile on his face.

“You-” Crowley muttered, immediately losing all sense of that cool, distant persona.

“I have been trying to find you for some-” Aziraphale began to say happily before Crowley’s stuttering interrupted him.

“What- Where-” he tried to say. “How can you smile at me like that?” Crowley demanded.

Aziraphale had reached him now and stiffened in the face of Crowley’s clear anger. “Excuse me?” He asked, affronted.

“I am- you fucked off!” Crowley yelled. “Where did- two months!” He threw his arms open, his hurt and annoyance fueled by Aziraphale’s slightly embarrassed glances around. He’d make a damn scene if he wanted to, angel sensibilities be damned. “We’d just- and now you’re- you’re smiling and wearing jeans like some-  _ what is going on? _ ”

Aziraphale put a hand up, trying to calm him. It didn’t calm him. “I did not… fudge off, Crowley,” he said in a polite tone. “I kept in correspondence.”

Crowley threw his head back in a laughless humour. He hurriedly fixed his glasses. “Leaving one letter on a door is not correspondence!”

Aziraphale bristled. “It’s hardly my fault that you moved out like some- some- hurried hermit crab.”

What was he talking about? Crowley glared at him. “What are talking about?” He asked furiously. “I can go where I like! I could go to Africa for two months and not talk to you if I wanted!”

“Of course you could!” Aziraphale shouted back.

“Right!” Crowley shouted, because he felt like he ought to respond to that. 

Aziraphale frowned mightily and scrambled through his inside pocket, pulling out a leather wrapped bundle. “I kept in correspondence, Crowley, of course I did,” he said smartly while pushing the bundle against Crowley’s chest.

Crowley accepted the pile automatically. Their hands brushed briefly as Aziraphale pulled back, grounding Crowley completely.

“What?” Crowley asked.

“I sent them to your flat, where I thought you lived, where you did, in fact, live last time I spoke to you,” Aziraphale said quickly, still in a huff.

Crowley looked down. He was holding a small pile of envelopes.

“These-” Crowley began to say.

“You didn’t think to check?” Aziraphale demanded.

He’d sent him letters, the whole time. Crowley hadn’t checked. He shook his head in response.

Aziraphale nodded once, then bowed shallowly. “Good day,” he said politely, and left. 

Crowley watched silently as he left, he had no idea what to say. Aziraphale was definitely wearing jeans, what the fuck. He was speechless. He waited until Aziraphale had rounded the corner, then immediately sat on a bench and tore open the first letter, from date furthest back.

_ My dear Crowley, _

_ My most sincere apologies for the manner of my departure, it occurred to me only once I was on the boat across the channel that it may have appeared quite surprisingly swift to you. Honestly, it was rather a sudden decision on my part, but I believe some time to reconnect with the people of Earth without oversight from Heaven will do me some good, and you know I’ve always enjoyed France. I will send you my address once I have a place to stay, I do hope you can join me. _

_ I caught the boat over! It reminded me of Noah, although I got rather more seasick this time around. It was not as frightfully expensive as I imagined, although I don’t fully understand the results of inflation so it’s possible I was undercharged. It’s a beautiful view but I did get rather wet. A lovely young man informed me that there’s a train underneath the water which I ought to take for my return trip, I think I may take his advice.  _

_ I do hope that place we went to for crepes is still standing, although I’m not sure if it survived the two wars last century.  _

_ I hope you keep well.  _

_ Kindly yours, _

_ Aziraphale _

Hastily scrawled on the back were two sentences. One had the address and room number of an expensive hotel in Paris, the other said _ I will call you to ensure you received this letter correctly, dear. _

Crowley scrambled out of the bench, tearing open the second letter as he bound down the street towards his Bentley. By the time he was in the driver’s seat he’d finished the second letter, which simply told an amusing story about a man’s effort to sell counterfeit art to Aziraphale. 

Crowley drove, barely looking at the road. He headed automatically for the bookshop but made a u-turn once he realised, bee-lining for his old apartment. He held the third letter in front of him as he drove.

_ Dear fellow, _

_ I’ve not heard from you - is everything quite alright?  _

_ I’ve begun canvassing clothing stores here. While your style of dress would not, I think, suit me particularly, I would appreciate your expertise navigating the modern style of shopping. I used to simply find a competent tailor and they’d make what I wanted, but today it seems I must find something pre-made that fits me and not a lot of garments fit me. It’s very exasperating.  _

_ I do not like the Eiffel Tower, I preferred the skyline before that protruding piece of metal was put in. I can’t imagine what they were thinking. The view from the top, while breathtaking, does not make up for it. _

_ I’ve tried to call a few times, do call me back, will you? _

_ Aziraphale _

“Fuck!” Crowley shouted as he left the Bentley, hastily opening the fourth letter as he miracled and kicked the door to his old apartment open. He had been so stupid.

It was dusty. The real estate hadn’t been able to resell it yet. If he had a moment of good fortune his answering machine might still be there.

_ Crowley, _

_ I went in search of one of my old clubs. It specifically is gone, of course, but I found some that claim a similar attitude. I discovered that their clientele is more, I suppose, conservative than I. And rather more religious, somehow. I have found a few places that serve a similar brand of person to the kind I was accustomed to, although the atmosphere seems more like your sort of thing than mine. However, if I arrive in the early afternoon and leave before night falls I can find some pleasant conversation.  _

_ One gentleman, Charles, suggested that I restrain myself from blowing up your phone, as he says, and thinks I ought to play harder to get. Please know that I welcome your company if you wish to bestow it, but I shan’t nag you any longer.  _

_ Charles has offered to take me through Belgium for a few days, so I may be slightly more difficult to contact during that time, but I expect to be back in Paris by the end of the week. I’m curious about Belgium, I never much liked the region but Charles simply gushes about it.  _

_ Fondly, _

_   
_ _ Aziraphale _

Crowley put the letter in his pocket with a care that belied the fury he felt rising. Aziraphale had gone to France for two months, had a fling, and written almost wantonly to Crowley the whole time. Crowley was furious and ashamed and kind of in disbelief. If only he’d gotten the damn letters this would’ve played out wildly differently. 

His answering machine was untouched. He hit play.

“Crowley, it’s me- ah- that is- I’m Aziraphale,” came the angel’s voice. “I’m just calling to make sure you received my letter. If you didn’t, I’m in Paris, I’ve given the staff at my hotel permission to give you my information if you call. I hope to see you soon, dear boy.”

The machine beeped and whirred, playing the next message.

Aziraphale’s voice sounded distant at first. “...leaving a message, Ma’am, if you would try for some patience, perhaps? No? Just a tick, please.” There was a shuffle as he got closer to the phone. “Crowley, I’ve got to be quick, there’s a lady here who wants to use the phone. Unfortunately that crepe restaurant we liked was destroyed in the Second World War, but I found a few others I thought we could try out together. If- I am nearly done, Ma’am,” Aziraphale said irately. “Really,” he sighed in exasperation. “I think I’d better sign off, dear, I’m being hurried. We’ll talk soon.”

Beep.

“Me again, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He sounded tired. “Can’t talk for long, I walked all of Versailles today, I’m so looking forward to a good bath. If you’ve tried to get in contact I haven’t heard from you so you’d best try again. Toodle-oo.”

Beep.

“I’ve sent you a few letters now, Crowley, and haven’t heard back. Is everything okay over there? I’m concerned for you, just let me know.”

Beep.

“Fuck you, human bitch!” Came a different voice. Crowley was so startled it took him a few seconds to recognise Hastur. He was shouting so hard the words were often almost too mangled to be understood. “Discorporating me? Killing my friend? Well, someone I knew, at least. I don’t- I don’t give a fuck that you’re- you’re  _ immune _ to _ holy water  _ or whatever! I’ll find you! I’ll find you, fucker! You-”

Crowley skipped the rest of the message, pleased that he’d moved before Hastur had begun his search. The guy was incompetent, he wouldn’t be able to track real estate sales in the modern day.

Beep.

“I’m back from Belgium, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s soft voice returned. “I’d really love to spend some time with you here, I’m going to start picking up some clothes. A young lady I met at a place called Le Glam helped me find the best shops. I’ll let you know when I’m coming back, dear, but I’d like to see you before then, if you would. Okay. Take care.” 

Crowley could hear the disappointment in Aziraphale’s voice. The resignation. He laughed sourly, it reminded him of himself these last few weeks. 

He was enjoying the flare of hope inside him right now, though.

Beep.

“I’ve booked my ticket home, Crowley. I’ll be arriving at 3.45 pm on Friday, if you’re not busy I’d like to see you. I’ll come by your flat once I’m unpacked, if that’s alright. Okay,” he said sadly. There was a long pause of silence on the phone before he hung up. 

The answering machine spun for another second then went quiet with no more messages to read.

Crowley sat on the table and opened the last letter. As he did a small yellow flower fell out, it had been pressed between the pages.

_ Belgium was something of a bust. I’m afraid I rather insulted poor Charles. I’m sure you’ll find the story funny when I have a chance to tell you.  _

_ The wineries were nice, though. There was one where they let me try a glass of nearly everything! I’m afraid I may have over-ordered from them. _

_ I’ve met a lady called Loz (she won’t tell me where her name’s origin is, I’ve not heard the like since Messopatamia) who is helping find me some clothes. I’d much rather your hand, but she is very competent and dresses similarly to me, although more leather. So she knows some good shops. I am rather concerned that I may not be able to stand up to her, however, and may come back with a uselessly large amount of leather and denim to wear.  _

_ I am writing this in the middle of the Jardin du Luxembourg, it’s beautiful here. I’m surrounded by small wildflowers. I don’t think you’d like it particularly, but I think it’s gorgeous so I’ll include one for you.  _

_ Excepting the instance I was nearly mugged, people have been good to me on this trip. I think, perhaps, my influence may have won in France.  _

_ I’ll return next week, I think. You may have to forgive another phone call from me, I’ll wish to tell you when exactly I return. _

_ Yours, _

_ Aziraphale _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, thank you all so much for all the comments. It's really helping push me to finish up writing and post these last few chapters! Really appreciated, thank you


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Crowley sat in the Bentley outside Aziraphale’s shop. He’d hurried there from his old apartment, flinging the car wildly down the streets, but the moment he’d arrived he stopped, unable to think of what to say.

Unfortunately for his required brainstorming time, the door to the shop opened almost immediately, as if the person inside had been waiting, and Aziraphale walked out looking curiously at the car.

Crowley threw himself out of the vehicle, crossing the road without checking. He didn’t know what to say. An apology, start with an apology.

“I’m sorry for the miscommunication,” Aziraphale said as he drew near.

Fuck, he’d beaten him to it. Crowley shook his head, the words coming faster than he could think them. “No, me- it was- I-” he struggled.

Aziraphale smiled. “It’s quite alright. Come in for a bit?”

Crowley nodded, almost alarmed by how much calmer than him Aziraphale seemed. Well, he’d had more time to process than Crowley had. 

Crowley sat on the edge of the couch, trying to psyche himself up to say what he wanted to say. Sorry I didn’t check my mail. I should’ve come after you. I’ll trust you next time. I’ll trust me next time. I’ll trust us-

“Do take those off, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley shook his head, absentmindedly touching his glasses to make sure they sat surely on the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry I didn't check my mail," he blurted out.

Aziraphale sighed, then smiled warmly at him. "Yes, well," he said as he sat awkwardly on the edge of the couch, perched like he was ready to leap off. "You ought to have, really," he said. Crowley nodded in agreement. 

Aziraphale shuffled his feet, placing them in a pattern that Crowley vaguely recognised as a deeply formal way of sitting in the late 1700s. "I’m just glad you weren't refusing me," Aziraphale muttered.

"Wouldn't ever," Crowley whispered to himself. Aziraphale was close enough to hear, but far enough that he could pretend not to. "I thought you needed a break from me," he said more clearly. "So I was trying to, you know," he trailed off.

"I know." Aziraphale glanced at him. "Thank you for the effort."

Crowley nodded to the side. "It was an effort," he admitted.

Aziraphale glanced at him a few more times. Crowley was more than a little confused. He'd expected to have more apologies demanded of him, more admonishments. He had been foolish enough to deserve them. He thought Aziraphale might yell at him some more, but this? This mildly flustered, very clearly uncomfortable angel. It was almost formal. Had Crowley screwed up enough to undo the more recent familiarity that had formed between them? He hadn’t thought that was something he could fuck up in less than a few years of effort, let alone two accidental months.

Aziraphale's intake of breath interrupted his thoughts. "I don't want a break from you," he said quickly, still looking mostly at his feet.

"Okay," Crowley said. 

Aziraphale stood up, walking to the armchair two meters away and standing behind it. "I apologise, I'm being too forward," he said as he went. 

Crowley leaned forward, elbow resting on his knee as he stared at Aziraphale. Aziraphale was holding the back of the armchair like it was a lifeline keeping him standing. His knuckles were actually whitening. 

"Forward?" Crowley repeated, bemused.

Aziraphale pointed not very accurately to the drinks cabinet. "Would you like a drink?" He offered.

Crowley kept staring at him, frowning as he tried to figure out this odd dichotomy of kind and vulnerable comments alongside physical distance. "No," he said.

Aziraphale's hand fell. 'Oh, well, I'd better not, then," he said quietly. 

"What're you skirting around?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale glared at him with a touch of humour. He leaned forwards across the armchair. "Well, you're not saying it either, are you?" He said pointedly, like he was referencing something obvious. Some in joke between them. Crowley had no idea what he meant.

"Saying  _ what? _ " Crowley asked.

Aziraphale shimmied a little in irritation as he stood up again, walking around the armchair and back towards Crowley. "I don't think it’s fair that I should have to say it first," he said petulantly.

Crowley opened his arms, looking up at Aziraphale as he got closer. "Angel, I- I don't understand, I really don't."

Aziraphale stared back at him, his head slowly tipping to the side as he considered something. Crowley looked back. He was hyper aware of his glasses, they were doing him a real kindness by stopping the open yearning of his heart being known, but he wondered if maybe Aziraphale ought to know a bit of it now.

He already did, of course, but it was good to remind him on occasion. It depended, as it always did, on what Aziraphale did next.

Barely making a sound, Aziraphale sat next to Crowley on the couch. He sat normally this time, not perching on the edge but comfortably on the cushion. He smiled warmly at Crowley, a smile that made Crowley melt every time, and took his hand.

Crowley's heart stuttered. Aziraphale didn't just take his hand, not ever. It wasn't accidental, or comforting, in was intimate. His fingers curled around Crowley's, pulling Crowley's hand close, wrapping both his hands around the demon's and holding them against his knee. 

Crowley moved jerkily, without grace, and snatched his glasses off his face, throwing them away and into the depths of the shop.

Aziraphale grinned at him, meeting his eyes happily. Then, his commitment seeming emboldened by the look in Crowley's eye, he smoothly raised Crowley's hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. 

Crowley's body stopped breathing as the demon inhabiting it forgot how to be. Every part of him that mattered was focused on these brief moments as Aziraphale's lips brushed his skin. 

Aziraphale lowered his hand down again and looked at him with a nervous blush. Crowley took a shaky breath in, ignoring the pain in his lungs that beckoned for more oxygen. 

As Crowley breathed, he began to think again. 

He thought hard about what Aziraphale was saying. It seemed clear, but it was so easy for Crowley to be wrong. He was very good at it. He didn't want to be wrong now. 

Aziraphale was an angel, a being of love, of course he would love Crowley. But like this? Crowley had thought they would simply be comfortable with each other at last. They liked each other, but the love had always just been on Crowley's side.

Aziraphale loved him too?

Maybe Aziraphale had gotten his motivations confused.

"How d'you know it's not just… love for all living things?" Crowley asked, still slightly breathless.

Aziraphale raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "I can tell the difference," he said a touch condescendingly.

Crowley nodded. "Right," he said. Of course he could tell. 

Aziraphale was still looking at him, politely expectant. 

"Um," Crowley said eloquently. "I mean, likewise, you know."

Aziraphale's eyes crinkled. "Really?" He breathed.

"Yes," Crowley said, "of course yes." 

He should prove it. He reached out with his other hand rather than interrupt the grasp he had on Aziraphale. His spine curled a little more than most people would find comfortable as he gently stroked the side of Aziraphale's face. Then, encouraged by the small smile still on his angel's face, he leaned in to kiss him.

He was stopped by Aziraphale's hand on his chest. "Um," Azuraphale muttered, keeping Crowley a few safe inches away. 

Crowley smiled at him. "Slower than that, huh?" He asked.

Aziraphale blushed a good deal, his eyes flickering around Crowley's body. "If you don't mind," he agreed. 

Crowley leaned back, squeezing Aziraphale's hand that still held his own. "Not one bit," he said. 

He was relieved, honestly. While he wanted more, certainly, had done so for millennia, it didn't seem like Aziraphale's style to leap right in. This sort of meander into a relationship felt more honest. More like home.

"Shall I get us that drink now?" Crowley offered.

Aziraphale nodded emphatically. "Please!"

Crowley used the seconds it took his to gather a bottle and some glasses to calm down, to ignoring his mounting excitement at the prospect of being able to say some of the things he had wanted to say for so long. 

Not tonight, though. Tonight was to settle.

"So who's Charles?" Crowley asked loudly, breaking any lingering tension as he sat next to Aziraphale, letting one of his knees fall naturally against the angel's thigh.

"Oh no," Aziraphale muttered as he accepted his glass from Crowley. "I'm afraid I made something of a fool of myself there."

Aziraphale proceeded to tell Crowley the story of this almost-handsome young french man who had taken something of a shine to him. Crowley politely sat through the story - which culminated in Charles handling his rejection not too well and storming off at a train station in Brussels - and told Aziraphale off for being a tease to cover up the simmering jealousy he felt. 

His jealousy didn’t last, it couldn’t, not with the warm smiles and mentions of  _ oh, I thought of you while I was there _ , and _ that place reminded me of the time we _ , and  _ we must go together some time so I can show you _ . 

They didn’t discuss what had just happened between them, they both knew already.

Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s hand in greeting from then on, although sometimes Crowley got to his first. Two months later found Crowley playing with Aziraphale’s hair in quiet moments. A month after that they woke up holding each other having fallen asleep sitting on the couch.

It was two years before they actually kissed each other, and their common inexperience meant they didn’t bother to try again for another year. But they eventually got the swing of it. 

It wasn’t a new normal, it was exactly the same normal as ever, just a bit more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked it!! Thank you all for commenting so much, it's brought me a lot of joy this week <3

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley is a sweetie, but he is also A Fool


End file.
